


Tantra

by Ladycat



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Biting, Bondage, Dubious Consent, Episode: s02e08 Conversion, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-12
Updated: 2014-02-12
Packaged: 2018-01-12 03:29:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,009
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1181360
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ladycat/pseuds/Ladycat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rodney’s fingers cataloged all the places that itched and stung, soothing them with a cream that smelled of the same herb as Athosian tea, the skin pricking into sudden, sharp heat before soothing into something that almost felt normal. Felt human.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tantra

John shifted, head lolling to one side as he gradually came awake. This was a new feature, one he wasn’t particularly thrilled with. He’d trained himself from an early age to wake cleanly and coherently, relied on his ability to assess his surroundings within an instant. During the first change, he’d woken with a sharp-edged awareness, the very texture of the air readable to his enhanced senses.

Now, though, he was on drugs. Drugs to ease the pain. Drugs to control the itching. Drugs to help his body become mostly human, again. Drugs that kept him fuzzy and disoriented, no matter how many times he surreptitiously dropped the pills into potted plants.

Annoyed at his own sluggishness, John tried to move—and couldn’t. Great, more restraints. “I thought we agreed to just let me scratch the damned stuff, Carson,” he said.

Except his arms weren’t at his sides, tied to the raised railings of the infirmary bed. They were above his head. And the material around his wrists wasn’t cotton reinforced with tougher, stronger plastic fibers buried underneath. He flexed his wrists, feeling the tight pressure and release that meant good, supple leather.

No scent of disinfectant, he realized after a moment of flexing his wrists as imperceptibly as he knew how, testing the immovable restraints. No constant hum of various medical machines that never turned off, or the distant chatter of whichever nurses were on duty.

Not the infirmary then. Eyes still closed, John concentrated on trying to determine where he was. He knew he was still in Atlantis, the sense of _home_ and _safe_ stronger even than when he’d lived in Georgia with his mom, but other than that—

“Are you constipated? You look constipated. Either that, or it’s some manly rictus of pain you’re trying to suppress and doing a terrible job at.”

John opened his eyes, blinking despite the low lights that didn’t bother his still-slitted pupils. “Rodney.” He was proud that his voice didn’t tremble, didn’t give a hint of the roiling emotions he knew he couldn’t give vent to. “Untie me.”

His ankles were bound, too.

“After I spent nearly twenty minutes determining the perfect placement? You wouldn’t believe how complicated it is to tie someone up, Colonel, and have it done correctly. It’s not just knowing the length of your arms and legs and gauging your relative strength. I had to take into account muscle tension, joint flexibility, your pain tolerance.” Rodney’s mouth was smiling but his eyes were grim as he added, “Which was too damned high even before you got bit by a radioactive iratus.”

“Rod—”

“Not a chance, John.”

The more he’d become the bug, the less emotion he’d felt: everything had been pared down to instinct and need and desire so blinding that it’d become necessity. Now that he was shifting back, all the emotions that had slipped away returned with a roar of too much: too loud, too raw, too powerful as they twanged against nerves already shot to nothing. Rodney’s calm words—firm and controlling in ways Rodney rarely actually was—provoked a wave of red rage. He wanted to snarl, animalistic in his frustration, tearing almost mindlessly at whatever it was that got in his way.

The only action John allowed himself was the sweat he couldn’t control, beading on his skin.

Rodney brushed warm fingers against his cheek and his brow. John’s teeth _itched_ with the need to snap, but he held himself rigid as Rodney let his hand wander, examining the faint blue skin along his jaw. “What,” John asked, “no pats on the back about your genius with kidnapping and bondage?”

“Oh, Carson knows where you are.” The words were so _light_ , lacking all of Rodney’s bluster and bombast, the too-quick pace of a mouth that could hardly keep up with the lightning behind his eyes. “Also, you’re welcome to continue baiting me and, indirectly, complimenting me. It’s amusing.”

The bed dipped, Rodney too warm and solid against his side. He looked as calm as he sounded, mouth sloped down into a resting position usually found only in sleep, eyes steady and a little solemn as they studied John’s face. He was dressed in a pair of loose boxers and a worn, plain white t-shirt. John stared at that a little fixedly; he’d never seen Rodney in a t-shirt that didn’t somehow proclaim his intelligence and everyone else’s stupidity.

The fingers skated down his neck, skidding a little on smooth, chitinous skin. “You’ll be pleased to know that you’re probably all caught up on sleep, now. We had to drug you more than before, since you fought us when we tried to move you.”

John didn’t remember that. He didn’t remember a lot of things, though, so he concentrated on remaining unmoving—unaffected—as Rodney’s fingers found the edge of his collar bone and traced it upwards. “What’s going on, McKay?”

“What’s going on, _Colonel_ , is that you’re a control freak. Oh, fine, yes, go ahead and tense even though it’s neither surprising or somehow unique, around here. Most of us are control freaks, it’s one of the reasons we _got_ here and definitely one of the reasons we’ve survived as long as we have. Obsessive attention to detail and attempting to plan for as much as possible is practically Darwinian, in the Pegasus galaxy.”

“Pot,” John managed. Talking was still more of an effort then he liked, his drawl too strained to be casual. One of Rodney’s fingers was circling a nipple. “Kettle.”

Rodney’s mouth quirked. “I hate you for making me say this, but _duh_. What part of the ‘most of us’ category did you think I put myself in, hm? Please. The only real difference between you and me is that you hide it better. Also, you suck at dealing with it.”

John’s laughter creaked, chest arching up involuntarily towards Rodney’s touch. He tensed, forcing himself back down even as he levered as narrow-eyed a glare as he could manage. “Whose blood pressure is Carson worried about?”

Rodney’s hand cracked out, laying a flat slap over the nipple he’d been tormenting. It didn’t _hurt_ , not really, the pain crimson-edged and warming even as it stung. “You really have no idea what I’m doing, do you? Honestly, John, I expected better of you.”

The smack, more then the feather-light teasing, had John wanting to violently twist in his restraints, just in case Rodney hadn’t tied the knots tightly enough. His body shivered with the need to _move_ , to fight, to get away from this version of Rodney that wasn’t at all familiar and even less reassuring. “Better of me? You’ve got me tied up to your bed, McKay!”

“Your bed, and please don’t bother implying what I know you’re trying to imply. That’s exactly the point.” Rodney stood up, crossing what was, indeed, John’s quarters and rummaging through a black bag on the small desk by the mirror. It was too dark for John to make out Rodney’s face in the reflection, black shadows showing only blurring movement. “You’ve stopped healing.”

“What does that mean?” Fear was cold, chittering as it flooded him, like the sound that haunted his nightmares.

Rodney returned with something soft and black in his hands. “Exactly what I said. You’ve stopped healing. For the past three days you’ve barely shed anything, and your blood work has been unchanged.”

He was going to be like this forever. Carson’s cure wouldn’t be complete and he’d be half-man, half-bug, like some pathetically cheesy fifties thriller, a real mutant to live up to Rodney’s half-hearted Spiderman jabs. “How do you know? You never come to see me.”

Another slap, harder this time, on his left nipple. “You deserved that,” Rodney said, voice thin and trembled with emotion John couldn’t—wouldn’t—recognize. “I don’t come when you’re awake because you don’t _let_ me. You don’t let any of us, and once you’re finally well Teyla and Ronon are going to kick your ass for _weeks.”_

John’s thoughts were too jumbled, froth on top of a whirpool, unable to solidify into something he could put words to. _When you’re awake,_ Rodney had said, and _when you’re finally well_ , and _stopped healing_ and John really didn’t know anything any more. He’d been fighting this for so damned long, against something had no purchase to brace his toes on, nothing for his fingers to catch—

The black fabric turned out to be a scarf of some kind, silky and smooth as Rodney wound it over his eyes and behind his head. “Relax, okay? Yes, we’ve been coming to see you when you’re asleep, and yes, Carson’s been keeping us apprised, and _yes_ , you’re going to get better. You’re just going to have to trust me.”

Something bitter and acrid was forced into his mouth. He tried to spit it out, but Rodney ground the heel of his hand into John’s mouth, fingers busy pinching John’s nose shut, stroking John’s throat. Over and over like giving a puppy its medicine, and John waited until prisms burst in front of his unseeing eyes before he finally swallowed.

“You’re drugging me?” John said. His tongue worked, trying to rid himself of the awful taste, not caring how angry he sounded.

“Carson wouldn’t let me use a syringe. It’s just a relaxant, nothing serious. We’ll just, ah, give that a moment to work and ... ” His voice wobbled, followed a sigh that wasn’t frustrated enough. “Trust me. Please.”

Tucked behind blackness, John thought about screaming. About fighting. About using the remains of his superior strength to yank his restraints from the bedframe and push away from Rodney. To _hurt_ him, to take him the way he’d vetoed the moment the impulse first appeared. He remember the blinding fury of _want_ , waved before him like a Matador’s rag as he’d abandoned polished sticks to hurt Teyla a different way, a shameful— dissatisfactory—substitute. 

He could do it, too. John knew once he got free he could overwhelm Rodney—easily, so, so easy—and push _him_ down onto the bed, tie him up so he couldn’t move, couldn’t run away from all the things John wanted—needed, _had_ —to do to him. Instincts that weren’t his own warred with the needs of a man who knew the slightest break would hurt his lover, the one he’d only just allowed back, allowed himself to trust—

“No more thinking.” Rodney’s voice was half an octave lower, harmonics making John shiver as his hands slid over John’s body. Locked in darkness there was no way to predict his movements, no way to touch in return. “See, we may all be control freaks, but we’re all different kinds. Me, I want to control the world, everyone a little cog in the great McKay machine. Carson and Elizabeth, they want to control reactions, to be able to predict down to the tiniest detail which way people will go, to anticipate each move so they’re ready for it. Counter and thrust without a drop of blood.”

How had John not realized that he was naked? Entirely exposed—and _blue_ , not a lot, but still there, water-slick and unnatural—body open and unable to hide as Rodney touched him everywhere, gentle and almost glancing, little touches that left John vibrating with desire. He had to have more, a deeper, harder touch, like the one that howled behind his eyes, the one that would _hurt_. Rodney ran his nails down John’s hip, tracing the curve of bone, leaving lines that tingled and sparked in his wake and that was good, that was good, but not anywhere close to enough.

“But you, John.” The words were damp, seared into John’s skin. “You control yourself. You’re titanium, adamantium, unbreakable. Except right now you’re just a man who’s sick, body out of control.”

Something hot blazed down the length of John’s thigh. He cried out, arching. “The _hell_!” he snarled, finally breaking enough to fight, to twist and turn and buck against Rodney’s sudden weight, laying heavy and solid over his belly and thighs, cock next to cock.

“That’s why you stopped healing,” Rodney told him, calm like he wasn’t riding against a writhing, bucking John. Like the bed he knelt on wasn’t shuddering with each frantic yank. “You’re starting to try to control yourself again. All that military precision, it’s holding you back. It’s keeping you half one, half the other.”

That was insane. _Rodney_ was insane, he had to be. He didn’t even sound like Rodney—not that he had since the very beginning, but this, this was even worse. The syntax was off, the inflection just wrong, and what he was saying was impossible. John stopped struggling, hissing as something cold was dripped down over his chest. “How the hell is me wanting to be in control of myself stopping me from healing?” he demanded. “I can’t control my body on a damned molecular level!”

“Oh, please. You control your mind, which affects your body. Even I can tell you that’s true, and I still think medicine is straight out of the dark ages. I can see it here.” He curled big fingers around John’s shoulders, finding knots held tight for too long. Pressing down hard made something _crackle_ right before it broke up. Pleasure arched up John’s neck, body loosening instinctively as blood started flowing past destroyed blockages. “Ha, I knew it. Not even the drugs can make you relax. But _I_ can.”

Only with drugs to help keep John pliant, he knew, to keep his mind dizzy and disoriented, thoughts starting to tumble in his own personal spin-cycle. But the drugs were working, sending gossamer confusion through his thoughts and it was harder than ever to fight.

“So what?” John panted. Surprisingly, for all he felt more and more out of control—his body reacting to Rodney the way only Rodney wanted—he was actually starting to feel better. Words came more easily now, burbling through his mind even if most of them were _yes_ and _please_ and _oh, god_. His throat vibrated as Rodney played arpeggios up his ribs with something that tickled as well as teased, leaving him gasping. “What does that have to do with anything?”

“Sometimes, you really are a moron.”

After that, no matter how John asked—demanded, pleaded, _begged_ , and John never begged in bed, never—Rodney refused to answer him. He didn’t keep silent, though, not Rodney. Rodney didn’t know how to be quiet, to allow the silence of his breathing to tell the story—and John clung to that. Lived for that.

“You should be tan,” Rodney told him as he ran heavy fingers up John’s abs, tugging lightly on whorls of hair, followed by a wet, clever tongue almost as deft as his fingers. “We’ll take you out, once the blue is gone, get you tan. I want tan lines, John. I want to taste them.”

 _Yes_ , John wanted to promise, wanted to see Rodney with his mouth on half gold, half white. But he couldn’t speak, anymore, not with Rodney teasing the rim of his nipples, blowing warmth before icing him into tight peaks. 

“Let me touch you.” Rodney’s fingers catalogued all the places that itched and stung, soothing them with a cream that smelled of the same herb as Athosian tea, the skin pricking into sudden, sharp heat before soothing into something that almost felt normal. Felt human.

“Anything I want.” The words were muffled, Rodney’s lips pressed where John had never had anyone’s lips before, teasing wet and soft, a pillow shoved under John’s hips for leverage. “That’s right.” A burr of sex had John panting, legs widening for more, for whatever Rodney wanted. He didn’t know what Rodney was doing to him, how he was touching him. Without his eyes, he was lost, awaiting each new sensation, still drowning in the previous one. 

“There you go, let me do anything I want. I’ll make it good. I know how to make it so good for you, let me, please. Oh, god, let me.”

Rodney’s voice broke, shivering the way John was—and John stopped tensing, stopped anticipating. His body belonged to Rodney like this, each cry wrung from him with expertly planned touches. Hot and cold, wet and try, feather-soft touches and hard jolts of pain—he went with it. Sensations crashed over him, body sodden with sweat that smelled just a little too wrong, a little too sharp, cock wet and sticky as it jutted upward.

“Always wanted to do this,” was tattooed into his skin, each ‘this’ something John hadn’t known he wanted: a sharp pinch of fingers along the base of his cock, hurting, except when Rodney fit his wide mouth around John’s sac in twisted counterpoint; hard, sucking kisses that left different kinds of marks on John’s skin; kisses under his arms, along his ribs, against wiry curls that made Rodney snort and John moan. “So good, god, you’re so good.”

Each new sensation, good or bad, pain or pleasure—the distinctions faded into a single note, indistinguishable against the overarching symphony Rodney conducted.

“Let me hear you,” Rodney murmured.

It wasn’t words he wanted, John knew that. Rodney liked to know his efforts were appreciated, even with a military man who’d learned quick, and quiet, and dirty long before he learned true skills. Here, though, all the restrictions John had made for himself were shattered, broken fragments like the jagged, broken sound of his own moans. His lungs burned with each hitching cry, diaphragm aching as the noise grew louder, rougher. He made a noise perilously close to a sob when slick fingers pressed inside him, one and two and _deep_. 

But then it wasn’t fingers but something hard and cool that buzz, buzz, buzzed into John’s brain, changing the high-pitched chittering into something mechanical. Soothing. _Familiar_ and entirely Rodney, because Rodney was all about toys and experimenting, even if they’d never quite gone this far before.

John really wasn’t objecting.

It was the removal of the toy inside him that triggered his first orgasm. John arched up as Rodney’s big, deft hand closed around his cock, working him past the shock of it, stroking him even when he was too sensitive and it hurt. Not letting John relax. “Not yet,” Rodney kept repeating, wet hungry kisses falling over John’s face, onto the blindfold, up to the line of his hair. “Not yet, come on, for me. Give me more.”

John could only nod, absently kissing Rodney’s throat and jaw and chest, whatever was over his mouth when he pursed it. “Please, Rodney, _please_.” He didn’t know if he was begging for peace or for the _more_ Rodney wanted. It didn’t matter, because for Rodney he’d be a teenager again, hardening in the slick hand still pulling on his cock.

“Good, that’s good. Stay hard for me, just like that.” 

And then Rodney was abruptly gone, the furnace heat of him no longer over John’s face but moving over his belly, his hips, his thighs, his cock—and oh, god. Rodney was sucking him down, lips wet and soft against the base, throat open and accepting. John cried out, struggling with his bonds—not to stop him, but because he loved to trace the planes of Rodney’s face, the curve of his cheek, the hint of his own cock inside Rodney’s mouth.

“ _Please_ ,” he begged. For Rodney he’d beg. But Rodney wasn’t listening to him, too busy bobbing up and down at a frantic pace while his fingers—three and four, now, slicker than before—pressed into him, reopening him until all the tension John had carried since he’d first met the wraith-girl just melted away, leaving him open and accepting and passive.

Rodney’s mouth _popped_ as it released John’s cock, cold air a shock after Rodney’s humid warmth. “You look so hot like this,” Rodney told him, pressing kisses to his belly. “Gonna do this to you again, when I don’t have to. Gonna do it again because you’ll _want_ me to.”

And John knew he would, especially when that sweet, burning glide of Rodney’s cock began to fill him. _More._ He wanted to ask, to beg, but he didn’t want more, not really. He wanted whatever Rodney gave him, whatever Rodney told him with lips and palm and hard, hot cock was enough, because it _was_.

The fucking was slow, at first. They’d only done this a few times before, and Rodney was being careful, so careful. He didn’t have to be. John knew, smiling drunkenly up where he thought Rodney’s face was, that his body would take anything Rodney gave it, because there was nothing of John left to control it. It was all Rodney’s now, all for Rodney, and it’d yield for him without complaint. But it was nice, feeling that restrained, coiled tension sliding in and out of him, gradually matching the roaring heartbeat in his ears as Rodney grew more confident, more certain that he was giving John only pleasure.

“C’mere,” John murmured, grunting as his body was slammed into, again and again. His hands flexed, reaching for something they couldn’t touch, but Rodney understood. He leaned down—probably hunched and John would have to rub those tense back muscles loose later—letting his mouth touch John’s, letting John kiss _him_ , passively forcing aggressiveness he knew John would obey because it was Rodney who controlled it. There was no fear in John’s movements, because he knew Rodney wouldn’t let him hurt anyone, wouldn’t let him be hurt.

He could only feel, caught beneath Rodney’s bulk, driven mad with sensation, with Rodney’s taste and Rodney’s mind and Rodney’s _cock_ , driving into him until his mind finally shattered, body shuddering into an orgasm so strong it pulled Rodney’s from him too, cock throbbing and wet inside John’s body as they both came and came.

The blindfold was gone when he blinked into awareness. “Hey.” His voice was barely a rasp, but John liked it. It sounded as thoroughly fucked as he felt.

“I’m pretty sure I can’t move. And I think I broke my back. Ow.”

“Fix it for you later.” His lips felt numb, but John was pretty sure he was grinning. “So. Carson and Elizabeth?”

Rodney creaked his way over to John’s side, sliding down over half of him with a sigh. For a man who complained about other people’s sleep habits and what a pillow-hog John was, he never seemed to really relax unless he was half-draped over John’s body. “They knew you were locking down, and that I had a plan.”

“And did they know that included drugging me and kinky bondage sex?”

The whites of Rodney’s eyes glowed eerily as he peered into John’s face. “Well, Carson knew about the drugging, obviously. You’re remarkably calm for a man who may’ve just been outed.”

Shrugging was uncomfortable with your arms bound above your head. They’d have to be let down, soon, too, since he couldn’t feel his fingers that well. “Elizabeth won’t care, so long as it doesn’t affect our work. Carson’s probably known for a while, since you have a thing for biting.”

John could _feel_ Rodney blushing, a wave of warmth that went down to John’s bones. Cool.

“Yes, well. Um.”

“Also, you fucked my brains out. Which was the point, right?” John twisted around a little, ignoring the twinge of pain in his wrists.

“Well, your brains were getting in the way of you healing, so yes. Fucking them out was the plan.” Rodney’s crooked grin brushed against John’s cheek as he pushed himself up, untying John’s hands and massaging them through the pins and needles that followed. “Better?”

For the first time since he’d been infected, John wrapped himself around Rodney’s familiar body and let his eyes close. He’d been so afraid of this before, so certain he couldn’t let himself go. That someone—him, Rodney, random marines—would get hurt. 

Maybe he really was the moron Rodney had called him before. “Yeah," he said. "Much.”


End file.
